by Berg,Alex P.
Now you understand our interest in the matter, said the Dirax.
I joined Tarja by the cryo pod. “Mind if I take a look?”
She stepped back and yielded the floor. “Knock yourself out.”
I took a peek through the frosted glass. Inside the pod, I spotted a man, slightly taller than me and with less muscle tone, with chin-length brown hair and a prominent brow. His eyelids had been closed, so I couldn’t see if he had any ocular implants, but in general he appeared unmodified. In fact, the only interesting thing about him was his attire.
He wore a voluminous long-sleeved shirt that stretched down toward his knees, and over it a tightly-fitting three-buttoned vest of a brilliant magenta. A length of cloth of the same color had been wrapped around the top of his head and tied off in the front, a cross between a bandana and a scarf. Though I couldn’t be sure given my angle of observation and the frost, he appeared to be wearing matching fingerless gloves.
“So our suspicions turned out to be well founded,” said Ducic.
Correct, said the Dirax. And the oddities continue beyond Brain composition. I ran a test on the man’s blood and found traces of non-proprietary anti-aging antibodies in his system. I’ve seen similar traces before—it is far more common than theft of our Brain technology—but the particular antibodies I found didn’t match those we’ve come across before.
“So not only are these folks involved in seemingly impossible raids,” said Tarja, “but they’ve got illicit tech, too? What are the chances of that?”
“If you don’t mean the question rhetorically, then I would assume it’s similar to the chance of them having only one,” said Carl. “The probability of them possessing the sort of tech necessary to attack ships in the manner Ducic has described is supremely unlikely as it is. This doesn’t shift the overall probability much.”
I turned from the glass and stuck my nose in the conversation before Tarja could showcase her snarling skills. “What about other tests? Have you run this guy through any facial recognition or DNA databases?”
Ducic’s nostrils flared. “How incompetent do you assume us to be? That was our first course of action. As you can imagine, we were unsuccessful on both counts. His face did not appear in records, nor did his ancestral markers, though they did indicate he is of mixed European Earth descent.”
Tarja snorted. “I could’ve told you the same by looking at him.”
“Am I correct in assuming since he’s rocking non-GenBorn hardware, you can’t access the data in his Brain?” I asked.
The Dirax’s antennae flickered. That is correct. For now, at least.
“So, basically,” I said, “despite the fact that we’ve got a deceased captive pirate, we don’t know anything about him or his buddies—other than his penchant for odd outer garments.”
Yet, emphasized the Dirax.
“Do we have anything else to go on?” I asked.
Ducic nodded. “Once again, follow me.”
7
The evidence locker hissed and puffed open upon confirmation of Ducic’s thumbprint—or whatever passed for it. His rudimentary hands didn’t have thumbs, although I supposed they must’ve featured some form of print.
Tarja reached a hand in before I had the chance. When she drew it out, she held a sleek pulse pistol.
She pulled back to examine it. “This was on the dead pirate?”
“Correct,” said Ducic. “Everything in the locker was.”
Tarja turned the weapon over in her hands, examining the components. “It’s a beautiful piece. Lightweight composite frame, but with good balance. Not too heavy, not too light. Grip pressure-activated laser sights with optional holoscope. Biometric enabled trigger, if I’m not mistaken. Energy, mass, and combo firing modes, with an extended clip. What sort of wattage is this? I don’t see any markings. I’d guess somewhere in the one to two kilowatt range.”
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
Tarja gave me one of those dismissive sneers I’d started to grow so fond of. “You don’t handle weaponry very often do you?”
“I don’t really need to answer that, do I?”
“Wattage doesn’t matter so much as other factors,” said Tarja. “Voltage, current, and duration of applied current are what really make your targets twitch. But when push comes to shove, more is always better.” She smiled, which was the first time I’d seen her do that. Apparently she got off on guns.
She turned the pistol over and inspected a latch to the side of the trigger. “I’m guessing this is the safety? Looks like the gun’s set to stun for human targets, though I’m not familiar with this particular signage. Any chance you tried this thing out?”
Ducic nodded. “Said weapon is, indeed, set to stun. You seem to be an enthusiast of pain-causing devices. Are you perchance familiar with the assemblage of this weapon?”
“You mean do I know who made it?” She shook her head. “Doesn’t look like it was crafted by any of the major manufacturers. It’s a totally different design than I’m used to. Which isn’t a bad thing. I like it. A lot. But I’d wager it’s a home printed model.”
“We suspected as much,” said Ducic. “As with the pirate himself, we ran his weaponry though a database search, but results did not strike us.”
Carl hummed as he poked his head into the evidence locker.
“Find something interesting, droid?” asked Tarja.
Carl was too predisposed to congeniality to show any displeasure at her tone. “Yes, but my reaction was due to Ducic’s news. It doesn’t strike me as odd that a band of brigands would print their own weaponry. That would make them harder to track in the event of capture. But I do wonder why they’d bother to create an entirely new design. Why not use one of the many available pulse pistol designs found in the servenets?”
“Maybe they’ve got a sense of style,” I offered. “The dead guy’s clothes insinuate as much.”
I joined Carl at his side and began extracting the remaining items from the locker. First I found another pistol, same make as the first. Based on Tarja’s supposition about the safety, this one had also been set to stun.
“Have the pirates killed anyone during the raids?” I asked.
“Negative,” responded Ducic. “If appearances do not deceive, they are a non-violent bunch. Well…that statement is not entirely grounded in fact. Their use of pistols is evidence of the opposite, as is their continued assault on our freighters. But to date they have not ended the life of any of our crew, even following the loss of their own after breach of cargo bay aboard the Agapetes. That did not preclude their anger, however. They formed clubs with their hands and used those to discipline the crew. You will see when you watch holovids.”
I set the pistol aside and drew another bandana scarf hybrid from the locker. This one was dyed a fierce green color.
“Another headpiece?” I asked.
“Taken from a separate pirate,” said Ducic. “He dropped it during proverbial cargo hatch incident. His body was lost, but this portion of his attire was not.”
I drew it between my hands. The fabric felt lightweight and breathable, like Linesse but perhaps stretchier. The garment didn’t have a tag on it, so I could only assume it, too, was homemade, probably by a bot. I couldn’t imagine the pirates practiced needlework in their spare time.
“Seen anything like this before, Carl?”
My partner took the item of clothing. “I can’t say I have. In fact, I wouldn’t even know what to call it.”
Paige? I thought.
Sorry, pal, she chimed in. Beats me.
I pictured the pirate, still fresh in my mind’s eye, his attire so garish and odd—unlike anything I’d seen around Cetie or in communications or holovids. But his clothing didn’t have a historical analogue either, unless it was meant to invoke the image of a water-based pirate from antiquity. Those had worn head wraps of various types, hadn’t they?
Tarja muscled in next to me. “E
nough with the hijab or burka or do-rag or whatever that is. What else is in the locker?”
Together we extracted and inspected the remaining items, which were few in number. A pair of multitools for unscrewing panels, prying open doors, or defacing walls. A single use compressed acetylene flare which could theoretically be used to cut through a metal bulkhead, assuming you could do so in thirty seconds without melting your hand down to the bone. And an emergency respirator mask with attached miniature oxygen bottle, one I’d hazard had about thirty minutes of breathable air in it. Not that the thing would do much good without a pressure suit in the event of an uncontrolled decompression, which it hadn’t, based on the pirate’s method of death.
Tarja peered at the interior of the respirator, turning it in the ship’s light to get the best angle. “At least this thing has a manufacturer’s label. It says…Cluster Consolidated Manufacturing, LLC. There’s a serial number, too. Have you looked into that?”
“Affirmative, but with a negative result,” said Ducic. “We were unable to locate any manufacturing company by said name.”
“Of course not.” I shook my head.
Tarja eyed me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the pirates knew what they were doing,” I said. “Not an item recovered from this oddly-dressed space popsicle gives us any traceable clue. Think that’s by accident? They made sure not to use stock guns or wear stock clothing. This respirator manufacturer, if it even exists, is probably a front.”
Ducic’s ears flattened, and his eyes widened, a gesture Paige assured me meant he was crestfallen. “Do you imply what I believe you to? That you have no guess as to how to proceed with this investigation? Perhaps my faith in your intellect was exaggerated.”
Tarja snickered. “I think that’s safe to say.”
“I meant ‘your’ in the plural sense,” said Ducic. “This is grammatically correct, no?”
Tarja’s smile vanished.
“I didn’t admit to anything of the sort,” I said as I returned the multitools and pistol to the locker. “You mentioned holovids. You have surveillance of the pirate attacks?”
“Copious amounts,” said Ducic, his ears returning to their regular, forward-facing position. “Of all five attacks, from multiple points of view and covering separate portions of each ship. Enough to occupy one’s senses for quite a length.”
“Good,” I said. “That’ll give us something to keep us busy on our way to the Agapetes.”
Tarja leveled me with a raised eyebrow. She didn’t do it as well as Carl did. “You want to visit the Agapetes?”
“If it’s still close by, yes,” I said. “I assume it arrived at the Tau Ceti system if the body recovered aboard was transferred to this ship. It’ll be insightful to talk to the crew.”
“I do not comprehend,” said Ducic. “Did you not hear my mention of the holovids? Are your ear ways blocked by naturally produced waxes and oils?”
“Yes, I got that, thank you,” I said. “But in addition to viewing those, we need to talk to the crew. Ask them questions and gauge their responses directly. They might have knowledge the holovids don’t, and conducting those conversations remotely, after accounting for transmission lag, isn’t as effective. I’d much rather go to them, assuming they’re still nearby.”
“To my knowledge, freighter Agapetes is currently stationed on Varuna in the asteroid belt having its hold repaired and recertified,” said Ducic. “Also to be refilled with goods for transport.”
“Perfect. That’s not so far away, not in celestial terms.” I waved at Ducic. “I assume you can get us there? Vijay said they gave you clearance to access whatever we needed.”
Ducic responded with that ears flattened, eyes widened look again. “Data, yes. Physical commodities, no. I may have to requisition a shuttle. To be honest, I am no pilot. Despite the abilities of my Brain, I would not be comfortable in such a scenario.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said. “But Tarja would.”
“Not on an InterSTELLA transport,” she said. “My own ship, yes.”
I gave Tarja my warmest smile. “How nice of you to offer. Let’s go then.”
The bounty hunter frowned. “Hold on. I didn’t—”
“Come on,” I said. “We’re a team now. I know I spun like a top in zero gravity, but I’m actually pretty handy when I’ve got two feet under me. And despite your front, I think you’re starting to realize I’m not quite as dopey and useless as you first feared. Heck, stick around a year or two and you might even start to like me.”
“Doubtful,” said Tarja.
“Regardless,” I said. “We need a ship and a pilot. You’re the latter and have the former. Unless I’m mistaken, as much as you’re willing to sit back and accumulate low daily payments, you’d much rather collect on a huge bounty. InterSTELLA’s paying our fees, which covers your fuel costs. So…what do you have to lose?”
8
I leaned back in my seat as the holovid cut out, crossing my legs and resting the back of my head against my clasped hands. I chewed on my lip.
We sat in the main cabin of Tarja’s ship, a sleek, well-equipped intrastellar cutter by the name of the Samus Aran, who apparently was a legendary bounty hunter in her own right. She was a modern ship, and by all measures quite spacious for a scouting vessel, with quarters for three, a cockpit, a galley, and the common room I sat in. Though much of the ship featured stock polished aluminum and molded plastic finishes, Tarja had refurbished broad swaths of it in metallic purple and white. It wasn’t the color palate I would’ve associated with a hardened bounty hunter, but at least it matched her jumpsuit and hair.
The ship wasn’t large or powerful enough to have pseudogravity technology aboard, but thanks to our constant linear acceleration, we didn’t need it. Tarja hadn’t lied about her penchant for pushing the pace, either. I was fairly sure we were pulling about two g’s. I felt right at home. Good thing the benches were padded.
Carl rested next to me on the plush built-in wrap-around bench. “Want to start over from the top?”
I mulled Carl’s offer. We’d been sitting for hours going through the holovids from the pirate attacks. The raids had ranged from forty-five minutes to an hour in length and each had been recorded thoroughly. I’d been able to insert myself into the action, watch the pirates board the vessels, move through the cabins and subdue the crew, then switch over to the teams emptying the cargo holds, all while sampling vids from the other areas of the ship to make sure nothing escaped my notice. It was exhausting work, even accounting for Paige’s helpful curation services.
You think watching the holovids is exhausting? asked Paige. Try doing the curation.
I shook my head. “No point in revisiting the entire collection, Carl. Although I do want to watch the most recent attack again.”
“What part?” he asked.
“The one where Captain Horatio is in the command room after the pirates have restrained the crew. I flagged it.”
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” asked Carl. “I can keep an eye out—metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I just can’t get a bead on the pirate captain. The moment when he finds out about his lost crew is the only point in the vids where I see him lose his cool. I thought perhaps there’s something to be gleaned from it.”
“Fair enough,” said Carl.
Got it right here, if you’re ready, said Paige.
I gave her the go ahead. My vision of the Samus Aran faded and was replaced by the Agapetes’ command center, a cylindrical room in the middle of the ship that gave the appearance of a turret thanks to the wraparound display wall broadcasting an image from the ship’s exterior. The doors into and out of the space were the only things that broke the illusion. A half-dozen captain’s chairs faced the outer rim, each of them with various technical displays pasted over the static image of space.
I stood near one
of the chairs, superimposed into the holovid via Paige’s efforts. Carl hovered to my right, watching everything with me. In front of us in the center of the room, a portion of the ship’s crew had been restrained, sitting back to back with their hands zipped tight behind them. Among them were the ship’s captain, a slender redhead by the name of Prydwen Rhees, and her first mate Uche Jones, a muscular black man of Tarja’s height. Also present were a bruiser with a wide jaw and a flattop and a woman with a fresh face and a pixie cut. I hadn’t managed to catch either of the latter two’s names.
Pacing in front of the quartet was a man I’d heard other pirates refer to as Captain Horatio. Although the crew around him fluctuated from attack to attack, he’d led the assault on each of the five targeted InterSTELLA ships.
I paused the holovid and stepped toward the captain. Like the frosty specimen locked within the Snowbell’s medical bay, he sported an odd assortment of clothing. His shirt was shorter and less voluminous than the mystery pirate’s, with square French cuffs and prominent pleats. A puffy bright yellow ascot poured from his unbuttoned collar, and instead of a vest, the man wore a suit jacket with short sleeves—not cut off, either. They were intentionally short, as evidenced by the stitching. Atop his head, I found another of the bandana-ish sorts of garments, this one in the same bright yellow as his ascot. While fashion varied among the brigands, they all wore some iteration of the brightly dyed headgear, and always in a single solid color.
The captain’s hair poured out the back of his headpiece in a long ponytail. I peered at the yellow cloth. Were the sides of his head shaved? The rag should’ve been puffier at the sides if not.
“Is everything okay?” asked Carl.
“Just getting a closer look.” I stepped back. “Let’s keep going, Paige.”
Captain Horatio continued to pace. He shook his head and sneered. “I’s must hand it to ye’s, Capin Rhees. Ye’s put up a good fight. Better ’an ’ose other skraggin’ capins and their skraggin’ crews. Lightweights and poseurs, all ’em. Ne’er mind their lack of preparedness, or that when they’s so lucky as to lay hands on a weapon ’o some sort, they could’na hit the broad side o’ a freighter from within ’tis own hold. Ney, they’s lacked ingenuity. But ye’s? Ye’s got that. Ye’s skraggin’ got it, all right.”
